When You Believe in Things That You Don't Understand
by Galythia
Summary: Lovino thinks it's a good idea to blackmail Arthur into doing his bidding. He wants revenge on Antonio for abandoning him for three months, and how better to get it done than with a black magic ritual in a graveyard? However, what Lovino doesn't anticipate is Arthur having a few tricks up his sleeve as well. Spamano, a little USUK, and a lot of crack. Written for SakuraMoriChan.


**Background:** this little thing is for SakuraMoriChan, who requested as part of my crazy little fanfic idea over in my other story, _A Not-So-Classic Romance_. I asked for three things: a pairing, a genre, and a short prompt of what is supposed to happen. I did request that people give me a challenge, and boy did she take me at my word!

Pairing: England/South Italy

Genre: humor/horror

Prompt: bunnies, tomatoes, and a mistake at a graveyard

* * *

**When You Believe in Things That You Don't Understand**

* * *

"This is a story... A story about two men... Poor, lost souls who decide to _gamble with Fate_... They venture into a graveyard in the dead of night, prepared to conjure up spirits and bring about _death_ and _destruction_, the likes of which the world ha—"

"Shut it, eyebrow bastard." Lovino sent a death glare toward the blond who was trudging alongside him, magic books and a few other supplies in hand. "Narration is unnecessary, you know. Especially when I'm right here. _With you_."

Arthur smirked, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "Why? Scared, little duckling?"

Lovino sputtered and stopped in his tracks—well, he would have, had he not tripped over a gnarled root right at that moment. Flailing as the Briton's laughter echoed off the tombstones, Lovino tried his best to right himself with whatever dignity he could preserve. Brushing himself off, the Italian muttered something under his breath and whirled around to face the mirthful blond—the blond who was practically dying of laughter at Lovino's expense.

"I said, _zitto_!" The Italian trudged along ahead, not caring that he had no idea where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do. "Chigi! I'm not scared, for your information. And I'm not a 'little duckling' either! My history is older and richer than yours!"

Arthur clutched his books to his chest and attempted to calm his breathless laughter. He followed at his normal pace, sure that it was only a matter of time before the Italian would get lost and beg for mercy.

"Both those points are debatable, Love," Arthur retorted, chuckling at the pun; it was quite a good one for the purpose of pissing off the Italian, if Arthur could say so himself. As expected, of course, from the learned and wise nation of England.

However, what _wasn't_ expected was Lovino's reaction; the Italian froze, whirled around, face completely red. His gaze was directed at the ground, and he was quiet for a while before replying, in a surprisingly quiet but menacing voice, "You have _no right_ to call me that."

_'But someone else does?'_ Arthur opened his mouth ask, then shut it again after a few moments. Even_ he_ wasn't terrible enough to bring up relationship problems. Plus, it wasn't as if Arthur was without a secret unrequited love of his own either. Arthur was many things, but he was rarely unfair.

Well, he liked to think so, at least.

Thus, the Brit walked on, and much to Lovino's surprise, simply uttered, "Fine." He swept past the bewildered Italian without another word, and Lovino was forced to consider the idea that maybe the eyebrow bastard was nicer than he gave the nation credit for—

"... But I've still got centuries over you, rookie."

—or Arthur Kirkland was just as insufferable as ever.

* * *

"Now I'm going to have to paint your forehead with this oil, so hold still."

Lovino fidgeted with the twig in his hands—probably a remnant from one of his many white flags of surrender, Arthur guessed. "Is that really necessary?" the Italian asked, glancing fretfully at the jar of what looked suspiciously like sesame oil mixed with blood and chili paste. The last thing he wanted was for this British creep to touch him, especially with something so outlandish and putrid.

Arthur glared at the Italian. "You're the one who blackmailed me into this, you tomato-loving prick." He proceeded to smear some of the red oil onto his fingers.

Lovino, sitting cross legged in front of the kneeling blond, eyed those anointed fingers with so much incomprehension and fear that anyone might have thought he was looking at one of Kiku's weird tentacle rape films instead.

"I-I know that!" Lovino spat out, subconsciously edging backwards. "And I still _am_ blackmailing you; don't you forget it." Arthur could have sworn the Italian was vaguely trembling. "I just... You didn't say anything about my involvement in the ritual!"

Arthur swore under his breath. Why couldn't he at least have had a decent blackmailer? Someone who understood that the least Arthur deserved for his cooperation was cooperation in return? Was that really too much to ask?

After all, it wasn't as if Arthur was here on pay or something equally rewarding. He was here because of this idiot of an Italian—or more specifically, this idiot's connections with his own mafia, which in turn possessed admirable ways of spying on other nations. Arthur now knew better than to write his diary in English, or leave it in plain view on his bedside table. He planned to get back into writing in high fairy, but until then, his diary would be under heavy lock and key, all secrets safe—especially evidence of his closely guarded love for that goofy, bespectacled blond. Lovino would be the first and_ last_ blackmailer, Arthur swore. He had already been foolish enough to get just one blackmailer in the first place.

"You didn't have the wit to ask," Arthur retorted angrily. "Now sit still!" With that, he quickly smeared Lovino's forehead with two parallel lines of the foul-smelling ointment, which then began to drip slightly down the side of the brunette nation's head.

By the time the Italian could react, Arthur had already turned back to the fire, and was stoking the flames as he flipped through one of the three books open around him.

"That was uncalled for, Brit." Lovino complained, spitting out that last word like a disgusting insult. He reached a wrist up to wipe away some of the oil by his ear.

"And _blackmailing_ me was uncalled for—_Italian_," Arthur retorted, looking relatively unfazed as he threw something that resembled sage into the fire, causing it to burst with a sudden blue flame. He could not believe that he was spending a good Friday night with this sodding barmpot rather than curling up by the fireplace, mug of tea in hand, ready to watch the next episode of Alfred's new (and very sexy) drama—one of _many_ things he did Friday nights, of course. And it _obviously_ wasn't the thing he most looked forward to doing every Friday night either. No way.

Beside him, flying mint bunny, who had been trailing along before, invisible to anyone but Arthur as always, perked up. _'But it _is _what you look forward to most. You always refuse to do any work until you—'_

_'Shut up,'_ Arthur thought back, sending the rabbit a metaphorical death glare. Outwardly, he simply grimaced and said to Lovino, "Look. If you can't handle it, then let me go home. Otherwise, be quiet and let me destroy Antonio's life in peace."

Lovino looked startled—exactly the reaction Arthur needed to confirm his suspicions of the Italian's hard denied feelings for the Spanish nation. The brunette sat up, quickly uttering,"Wait. I didn't say anything about the destruction of his_ life_. I only said—"

"I know what you said, you berk. '_Only to maim or seriously injure_.'" Arthur tried to do his best impression of an Italian accent, though it turned out to be something more like mangled posh-sounding Spanish instead.

Lovino's eyes widened further and he practically barreled forward. "Wait, _maim_? _I didn't_—"

"Relax, relax! It's a bloody joke, you git. Can't I quote movies filmed in my own country in peace?" Arthur sighed as he threw some bones into the fire. The collection looked suspiciously like bones from a human hand, though Lovino had no courage and no desire to ask.

The brunette's face reddened in anger, realizing that the Englishman had just made a fool of him—again. "You... you... No! You can't!" he replied lamely, crossing his arms and turning away. Honestly, Arthur wasn't his Friday night companion of choice either, especially for an outing in a chilly, menacing graveyard. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Lovino wanted his revenge.

"Yeah," Arthur chuckled, rolling his eyes, "whatever." He flipped through a few more pages in another book then proceeded to speak in a highly clinical voice, as if conducting an interview for a job position. "Okay, onto business. Tell me why you want me to sabotage Antonio's tomato crops."

"Why do you need to know?"

Arthur glanced up, looking over his reading glasses. "Part of the ritual. And since you're not cooperating, I've summoned a helper. Thus, do you _want_ that spirit behind you to attack or something?" he asked, pointing a finger to the empty space behind the Italian. Lovino immediately scrambled sideways, looking around himself with wide, skittering eyes.

"W-What? I-I don't see anything!"

Arthur shrugged, returning to his book. He couldn't help the small smirk that manifested on his lips as he spoke, as calmly as he could without laughing, "Obviously you don't see her, but she's there. So tell me quickly, otherwise she..." Arthur pretended to listen to the whistling breeze. "... She says she'll decapitate you. With a rusty, serrated jigsaw she found three graves over." He said it as nonchalantly as possible, knowing that it would throw off Lovino to no end. Alfred had always been easily scared like that, and the calmer Arthur had been when he told ghost stories, the more scared the American got.

Lovino practically jumped out of his skin with fear. He edged back over to the fire, wondering whether or not it had been a smart idea to blackmail such a dark and powerful nation, even if it was for something as important as revenge (Arthur could assure him right now that it wasn't; the southern nation would regret this deal soon enough).

"Okay, okay!" The words came rushing out of the Italian's mouth. "I-just-wanted-revenge-because-Antonio-left-me-alone-for-three-months-without-explanation-and-then-he-came-back-in-the-company-of-some-ugly-_puttana_-and-all-he-said-to-me-was-"Hola!"-as-if-nothing-was-wrong!" He was shaking, as his eyes kept darting around. "Now _please_ tell her not to kill me!"

Arthur fought the urge to burst out laughing, which, right then, was probably an urge even harder to resist than that of jumping America sometimes when the bright nation was being particularly appealing. The Briton brought a hand up to his mouth in an effort to disguise his smirk and murmured, "Well, since you asked so_ nicely_..." He then sprinkled some dirt in the air and spoke some nonsense in Gàidhlig (Allistor's formidable sounding but utterly ridiculous Celtic language). That seemed to appease Lovino a little, for his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, though his fingers continued to fiddle furiously with the aforementioned twig.

Arthur turned back to his job of stoking the flames, enjoying this evening more than he thought he would. Sure, Lovino was an annoying twat and a handful to deal with, but his reactions were thoroughly hilarious. Being a nation known for dark magics definitely helped sometimes, especially when everyone tended to believe Arthur about anything crazy he said once they accepted the mere idea that magic existed. Arthur smiled as he remembered the countless pranks he had been able to pull on unsuspecting nations because of their lamentable ignorance in the area of the dark arts_—_especially that one time involving France, a blackout in a storm, and the phrase "broken bread brings 'bout the dead." _Blimey_, had that been a good one!

Arthur threw some perfume into the flame, his mind turning from reminiscence onto Lovino's answer. An idea had been forming in the back of his mind ever since he had received the blackmail letter, but now, that thought moved to the forefront as it became a definite plan. It was clear that Lovino's motives for revenge were those of love and jealousy, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Lucky, because Arthur's specialty was revenge—well, his own, that is. By the end of the night, Lovino would regret the day he had ever thought it wise and within his power to clash against the powerful island nation of England. Revenge was sure to be oh so sweet.

* * *

_'Arthur! What are you doing? That's not how you—'_

_'I know,' _the Briton insisted, sending rabbit companion a glare. _'You think, after living this long, I don't know how to do something so simple as this spell?'_

Arthur glanced over at the Italian, who was on the other side of the fire, curled up on the ground. Part of the spell involved making sure the victim was asleep, and Arthur had thought that it would be a pain to get that Italian to shut up once and for all. But in the end, the pitiful nation had simply cried himself to exhaustion after the parade of spooky tales and scary lies Arthur had told just to get some entertainment out of this unfavorable situation. Although, to be honest, it was quickly becoming quite a _favorable_ situation instead.

Arthur had been able to practice some of his simple magics in his earlier quest to scare the Italian for recreation purposes. He had created some illusions in the shadows, materialized some harmless bats out of leaves, and even once had made a hand grip at Lovino's shoulder—a hand which had really just been a friendly wave from a kind soul in another dimension, but the Italian nation needn't have known that. It really was funny how dimwitted other nations tended to be when it came to dark magic.

But it all worked out in the end, for now Arthur was sufficiently entertained, despite the time—they had been here for three hours already, after all—and Lovino was finally quiet _and_ asleep, to boot. Everything was going perfectly according to this newfound plan, and Arthur actually found himself more giddy than he had been in decades. He had forgotten how nice it was to play pranks on people. Arthur made a note to thank Lovino for reminding him.

Well, actually, he would do just that—but Arthur Kirkland style.

The Briton flipped a page over in the tome to his left and eyed it carefully. He picked out some small glittering orbs from his pouch of ingredients and tossed it into the fire, speaking some words in a language only faeries—well, northern mountain high fay, to be exact—would understand.

_'Arthur, those are the words for an honesty spell.'_ Flying mint bunny looked on with an expression of blatant confusion, tinged with wariness.

Arthur didn't look away from his reading. _'I know_,_' _he replied with mental annoyance, _'You can stop being obvious any time, you know.' _He threw some eye of salamander into the mix and whispered some more words in the fair folk language, causing the leporine spirit to jump up in surprise.

_'Wait—a heart's true love spell?'_

_'As I said, you can stop being obvious_ any time. _In other words, _now_.__'_

_'Are you mixing spells, England? You shouldn't do that! Remember what happened last—'_

Arthur rolled his eyes. _'Of course I_ _do_._'_ The 2011 Tohoku Earthquake might have been _a tad bit_ his fault—but that was through a line of reasoning so long and so winding that honestly, Arthur didn't even need to apologize to Kiku for it. And, come to think of it, he actually hadn't.

_'I know what I'm doing,'_ Arthur reassured, bristling a little at what the rabbit was implying by seeing the need to remind him of his own past mistakes. He was a year and a half wiser now, and he was sure he wouldn't cause another ripple in the earth's crust this time around. Quite sure.

_'And what exactly_ are_ you doing?_' Flying mint bunny pulled a little at the pouch of ingredients, trying to see inside. Arthur swatted away the curious paw with a perfunctory movement and barely a glance over; this wasn't the first time flying mint bunny got too curious, after all.

_'Revenge,'_ Arthur thought with glee, glancing at the sleeping figure on the other side of the fire, whose ahoge was bobbing up and down gently as he snored.

Arthur snickered. _'If you believe in things you don't understand, then you suffer_._'_

The rabbit backed away a little at the blonde's tone. _'W-What was that?'_

The Shadow of Impending Doom that had passed over the Briton's face disappeared almost instantly as the image of a bumbling idiot in a bomber jacket materialized in Arthur's thoughts instead. Suddenly, England looked happy. In fact, some might have even said he looked warm, or even _smitten_.

_'Just a little something Alfred taught me.' _Arthur colored a little. _'What can I say? His music is damn catchy sometimes.'_

* * *

Lovino wrenched his eyes open, breathless and panting. He was sweating despite the cool air around him. Moving his head back and forth, Lovino tried his best to figure out where he was. Something about ghosts. A lot of ghosts. Ah! A nightmare. He had been dreaming about terrible, terrible monsters, zombies, evil spirits, and—weirdest of all—the marriage between his brother and the tomato bastard, Antonio.

As he said: nightmare.

As Lovino's awareness returned to him in the darkness, so did memories of last night. Or was it last night? Was it still the same night now?

Lovino reached up to wipe sleep away from his eyes—or at least he tried to, until he found out that his hands were tied behind behind his back. And his back was up against something soft and squishy. He felt around for a bit. Okay, make that_ a lot_ of soft and squishy. They were about the size of his fist, he guessed, after fidgeting around a bit more. He felt the sleek, unmarred texture of one of the objects, and though he could not see anything in the pitch black darkness, he knew immediately that he was surrounded by tomatoes. Lots and lots of tomatoes.

Lovino tried to wiggle around, but found that he couldn't lift his head well, or any other part of him, for that matter. His body was cramped inside what seemed to be a... box of tomatoes. Oh, well, that was okay. He liked tomat—wait. A _box__ of tomatoes?!_

As his mind raced through the events of the night before, Lovino began to panic. He couldn't remember anything beyond the frightening stories in the graveyard, the hand on his shoulder, the breeze on his neck, and the expression on England's face. Arthur had been terrifying—more terrifying than the Italian had ever thought possible. No wonder Antonio had always warned him to stay away from Arthur. The Spanish nation was rarely serious about anything, but he had been serious about that. Gravely serious.

And now Lovino understood why. Because he was in a _box__ of tomatoes_, for god's sake. It was only a matter of time before he started hyperventilating. Would his life flash before his eyes now? Or would that come later when he was on a lower supply of oxygen and closer to asphyxiation? Would he even get a chance to tell Spain good-bye?

At the thought of the Spanish nation, Lovino's chest twisted in a knot. Something felt weird. Well, his chest usually did that when thinking about Antonio, but this time was different. This time, his mind automatically assigned a word to the strange emotion. _L__ove_.

_Wait—what?_ He tried to deny that feeling to the best of his ability, but found that even his mind was metaphorically tongue-tied. No matter how much he attempted to hold it back, every time he thought about Antonio, his mind told him he was in love—in deep, undeniable, irrevocable love. This made him even more panicky than the concept of dying in a box of tomatoes had. Just what was going on?

Lovino tried to change his avenue of denial. If thinking about Antonio made him think about love, then he wouldn't think about Antonio at all. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on other memories and ideas, trying to be as outlandish as possible. However, it turned out that this was basically like playing that Wikipedia Game, in which one tried to get from page A to page B in as few clicks as possible.

In Lovino's case, Antonio was point B, and apparently, clicks numbered two or less.

His heart was pounding now, and he was sweating profusely. Was it really that hot inside a box of tomatoes? Could tomatoes even survive this searing heat that seemed to be concentrated at Lovino's heart? (Well, it was also concentrated in another part of his body, but he'd rather not think about that at the moment).

Just when it became close to unbearable, Lovino heard a ripping noise, felt cool air on his face, and heard an all too familiar voice utter in complete surprise, "Lovi?"

As the Italian's eyes opened, so did his mouth, and the following words tumbled out before he could even think to stop them: "I love you!"

The silence that followed was more fragile than glass. Spain stared, wide-eyed, at the tied up brunette in the box, who was blushing seriously, but could himself also not look away.

After what seemed like hours, Antonio's expression broke into an awkward smile and he began to laugh, lightly and stiffly. It was a half-hearted sound, though he tried his best to look amused as he wiped away a tear—of mirth, of course—from his eyes.

"Ah, Lovi! What a funny joke!" he uttered, mussing up the Italian's hair.

Lovino breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, after saying those words, whatever incomprehensible urges that had surged through his body had disappeared—though oddly enough, the squeezing sensation in his heart (and in "other places") still remained. Whatever. He'd deal with that later. For now, he'd just be thankful that Spain was so oblivious and care free.

"Great," Lovino muttered, face as red as the tomatoes around him, "Joke's over now, though. Can you be decent enough to get me out of here?"

Antonio laughed more lightly this time, glad that the regular Romano was back. "Si, si." Honestly, he wasn't sure how he would have dealt with it had that proclamation of love actually been true. Antonio had given up hope a long, long time ago, and was surprised that those words had even been able to elicit any feelings at all out of him in the first place. Apparently, Antonio was still head over heels for this ignorant Italian nation, but they had been precariously functioning in blissful ignorance for decades, and the Spaniard was quite content with leaving it be for just that reason. Of course, that didn't mean that his heart wasn't aching from the reopening of old wounds at the moment.

Lovino massaged his wrists, which were red from rope damage. He looked at the box behind him, which he could now see because he was in the familiar light of Antonio's living room. There were tomatoes everywhere, some of which were squished, making the box—and subsequently, Lovino's uniform—quite a mess. He frowned in disgust. "How did I get here?"

Antonio shrugged, his mind still on his unrequited love as he searched through the contents of the box. Taking a moment to gather himself, he actively avoided looking at the Italian.

Lovino froze at the proximity Spain's actions had caused. He stared at the inviting gap of warm, tanned neck right in front of his nose, his mind wondering exactly just what he thought that spot was inviting him _to do_.

Antonio, on the other hand, was oblivious to Lovino's stress as he rummaged through the tomatoes to find a note attached to the side of the box. It was addressed to him, in a flowing and neat script that he immediately recognized as Arthur's. Part of him considered throwing the note aside, but in the end, curiosity won over.

The text was simple:

_C__onsider us even for the armada incident, you wanker. _

_Of course, don't think that means I forgive you for everything else. You're still a bloody twat that's woefully ignorant of even the most basic principles of decency. May you rot in Hell._

_- England_

Antonio blinked at the note. So this was from Arthur? And Arthur was actually being_ nice_? What in the Lord's name happened to Lovino to put the grumpy nation in such a good mood? It must have been utterly atrocious to make England consider this package as a token of balance for the 1588 Armada invasion. Lovino must have been kidnapped, or raped, or—ay dios mio—_both?_

With a frantically worried expression, Antonio whipped back to face Lovino, a question of concern for the other nation's health on his lips. And he would have asked that question too, had their lips not locked at that moment, causing Spain to forget absolutely _everything_.

Lovino's eyes were wide open in surprise as well, as he felt Spain's delectably soft lips against his own. Sure, he had been going in for a kiss on Spain's alluring neckline (Lovino couldn't deny it, no matter how much he tried; it was probably something the stupid eyebrow bastard had done, putting Lovino's brain on this odd setting) but the Italian had not anticipated the Spaniard's sudden turn, the sudden lips, and the very sudden—kiss_._

And, of course, the very _last_ thing he had anticipated was the kiss actually feeling... _good_.

The note, completely forgotten, slipped out of Antonio's hand and landed gingerly on the ground, face-down. On the backside was a neat little postscript which Antonio had missed (and would still miss for a few hours, considering what was about to happen next):

_P.S. I paid for extra shipping in order to get this to you in time for St. Valentine's Day. __Your 'Love' needs to lose some weight. Or you need to stop that absurd obsession over tomatoes. _Thus,_ I really hope you have a "happy Valentine's Day," because I'm billing your government for all costs incurred—with compound interest. _

* * *

**Reference:**

Zitto! - shut up!

Puttana - whore

Ay dios mio - oh my god

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

This might just be the most cracky thing I've ever written. Both the humor and the horror genre are new to me, and I would never write them unless prompted to do so. Plus, I've also never written Romano before (in depth, at least), and I was forced to revisit his character, which in turn brought me back to Spain, North Italy, Belgium, etc. (along with the Italian language in general). Thus, I'm actually very thankful that SakuraMoriChan gave me such a challenge! I had loads more fun writing this than I thought I would!

I also enjoyed revisiting the history between Spain and England, even if it wasn't mentioned much in this fic. I love European history so much, especially during the Elizabethan era. God, that Spanish armada invasion was sexy, and while I was taking AP Euro, obviously, Hetalia was all I could think about. So many vital-region invasions! *squee*

Liberties I took that I'd like to recognize and apologize for:  
- I only included one rabbit when you mentioned multiple, SakuraMoriChan; I couldn't think of a nice way to fit in more rabbits. -_-"  
- A "mistake" in a graveyard... Well, it was Arthur's plan all along, so it was more Romano's mistake for thinking he could mess with badass and powerful England? I tried. OTL  
- Horror genre: let's just call this Romano's horror story with respect to his own ideas, since it's not really terrifying for us readers; we're just laughing at his expense

I'm also sorry if you're not a shipper of Spamano, SakuraMoriChan. I think they're utterly adorable, and you didn't say anything about it, so I figured I might as well run with it.

If it's weird and incoherent, this is my reason: these little stories are just my way of relaxing, having fun, and challenging myself a little. I don't take them ultra seriously, or something. I hope you had as much a fun time reading this as I had in writing it! =]

Happy reading,  
Galythia

P.S. I don't mean to offend any of you Scotspeople out there who speak Gàidhlig with pride. I was channeling Arthur, you see. I don't personally have anything against Gàidhlig, though I have to say it probably isn't one of the languages I'm, you know, _dying_ to learn.

P.P.S. I thought that "Superstitious," by Stevie Wonder was too good to pass off for this fic. I love that song! xD


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